


True Worth

by WhatSheDidNext



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/M, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt No Comfort, Joe Tate has a lot going on ok?, M/M, Reflection, Relapses, So don't worry if you don't ship it, The relationship can be read as either platonic or romantic, Unresolved Mental Health Issues, happy ending!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-21 09:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15554556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatSheDidNext/pseuds/WhatSheDidNext
Summary: Graham’s attack on Joe dredges up some unwanted demons from Joe’s past.





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just after the events of the episode on 31/08/18. Hope you enjoy :)

Graham’s words reverberated in Joe Tate’s head. Even now, a week later, sat in his house staring at his TV screen, they’re all he can focus on. 

Worthless, Graham had called him. Such a disgusting word. 

‘Such a true word,’ a voice in the back of his mind quipped. 

Shut up. 

He really thought he could trust Graham, after all these years. It’s not like Joe didn’t understand the older man’s pain - he’s had his fair share of self-destructive tendencies throughout his life - but he thought Graham was better than that. He thought they were past the worst of it. 

‘Your surrogate father was comfortable beating you up. How pathetic. What does that say about the other people in your life?’

He knew that Graham wouldn’t have done it in a million years if he hadn’t been swayed by alcohol. 

‘They say the truth comes out when you’re drunk.’

Shut. Up. 

Yet Joe still sent Graham packing, regardless of the older man’s circumstances. Maybe that made him a bad person-

‘It makes you a terrible person.’

-but he couldn’t bear to look at Graham's face again knowing what he’d said to Joe the day before. 

‘Knowing what he really thinks about you.’

Leave me alone. 

And now they’re both left on their own, reflecting on the past, tearing themselves apart. 

‘Do you really think he’s that bothered? That’s nice.’

Stop. 

‘Why?’

I’m hurting. 

‘You deserve it.’

No I don’t. 

‘Yes, you do.’

Only a bit. 

‘Fully.’

Maybe a lot. 

‘You deserve to suffer.’

I deserve to suffer. 

‘You could always stop eating again.’

That’s what pulls Joe out of it, slaps him back into reality. It’s easy to forget his past, with the life he lives now, but his teenaged years were a much darker time. It’s ten years passed, though. He’s over it now, knows he has everything he could ever want. 

‘So why are you thinking about that feeling, then?’

I’m not thinking about it. 

‘Weighing yourself seven times a day.’

No. 

‘No more than 179 calories.’

Please. 

‘Two and a half hours on the treadmill.’

I can’t. 

‘Perfection. Triumph. The control that came with these odd specifics.’

Not again. 

‘Punishment. Disappearance. Restrictiveness. Death.’

Why do those words sound like glory?

Joe stands slowly, gripping the half-empty glass of elderflower pressé he’d been drinking before he’d been consumed by his thoughts. Walking over to his sink, he upturns the glass, watching every last kilocalorie of the liquid drain away. 

Joe notices something familiar light up inside him as he washes out his glass. 

It’s wrong. It’s all kinds of wrong, but he’s running in a sort of... trance. 

‘You know I was always there for you. You know with my help, you’ll never be worthless.’

Joe knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, but you're also free to yell at me for ending it on a sad note. Let me know if you want a part 2, as this was a concept that was very interesting to explore.
> 
> Stay safe and positive <3


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry about the wait, I got locked out of my account. (I think I might have cried if I couldn't get back in.) Anyway, on with the chapter :)

It’s a few weeks later, and Joe’s decided that he’s become what he learned to hate. He still remembers the events of late July like they occurred yesterday, but not without a gargantuan sense of disconnect – the memories enter his head in flashes. Here, then gone. Torturous, then truant. It’s a twisted game.

“I can’t stand you when you’re like this! All self-piteous and cowardly. You’ve been fine for seven years!”  
Funny how the words he’d said to Graham back then could have easily left Graham’s mouth right in this moment, directed at Joe instead. They’d both worked for seven years to get better; for themselves, for each other, for the business. When Joe dragged Graham from that damned fire he made him promise that he’d get help for his alcohol addiction, and in return Joe promised to get help for his eating… issues. And they worked. They worked and they worked and they carried on through all the slips and the mistakes and the hurting and none of that even fucking matters anymore because they’re back in the same place they started and this time they don’t even have each other-

‘You have me.’

A familiar voice. An oxymoron of friendship and enmity, bringing him back into reality but not particularly kindly. Joe lowers his head to the floor and watches as his feet move forward rhythmically on the treadmill he’s found himself on in a spare room at Home Farm. Joe hates it, but he finds the situation almost… calming. Maybe it’s the white noise of the treadmill blocking out all reason but he loves this. He’s missed this. He knows for certain that this is the right thing to do whenever he glances at the treadmill screen as it indicates how many minutes he’s spent and how many calories he’s burned, watching the numbers climb well into his second hour running, seeing the calories that didn’t enter his body in the first place dissipate. It’s all the control he could ever want and, no matter how much he’s tried to tell himself otherwise over the years Joe has always been hungry for it. Numbly, he reaches for the right button and turns the speed on the treadmill up higher.

Nearly two stone in three weeks and it still isn’t enough to satisfy the craving for perfection instilled in him since childhood. It was no secret that he came from a family of perfectionists, a family of perfectionists who didn’t particularly deal with imperfection very well, either. They all had different, equally horrific ways of dealing with it all. His mum latched onto her abuser and went and got murdered. His dad topped himself. Zoe went crazy. Something was bound to happen to Joe Tate – it was practically written on his birth certificate. He reminds himself of this whenever his legs feel like they’re going to give out, the rational part of his mind screaming that he deserves better than his current situation. It’s a mere necessity. This is the hand he got dealt, and he’s just going to have to deal with it.

Nearly two stone in three weeks and people have barely even noticed. Debbie’s been round a few times to see him, but he always makes sure he’s wearing at least a few t-shirts and a hoodie so she doesn’t notice anything is wrong. Joe’s even been to see Sarah a few times: he thought she of all people would notice something was off but she didn’t say a thing, which was strange. Even when Joe’s finding it difficult to see himself realistically, he knows he’d have to be downright stupid to think the way his bones protrude from his skin like they’re trying to escape looks normal. Either of them ask if he’s hungry? He’s eaten. Tired? Just busy. Thinking about the situation with Graham? Not any more – that one’s the only truthful answer. Between work and his mental state, he doesn’t have much time to think about anything else any more. It’s glorious.

But despite all that, every now and then (as it was bound to) thoughts creep in that cast a shadow of doubt on his already overburdened mind. The reasonable Joe questions what the hell he’s doing to himself, reminds him of how dangerous what he’s doing to himself actually is. Because as much as that monstrosity tries to tell him that starving himself is for the best it hurts. It hurt when he was a fifteen year old boy pining for something he could understand, it hurts now he’s a desperate twenty-three year old grasping at what little control he has left and it will hurt him until there’s nothing. It hurts so much that he almost steps off the treadmill below him until, perhaps predictably-

‘This is everything you could ever want, correct?’

Yes. God, yes. It’s perfection, the constant gratification of achieving something even when he was doing nothing. It’s punishment keeping him in check whenever he lets himself down. Distraction from the complication that is his life. The three things someone like Joe needs. Sometimes, he almost believes that he feeds off the disease as much as it feeds off of him.

‘Then stop thinking about it and run until you’re skinny again.’

He does. But it’s barely been another five minutes of running before he starts to feel dizzy. Despite everything in him telling him that he needs to keep going, Joe manages to convince himself to press the Power Off button and bend down to retrieve his water bottle. 

As he reaches for his water, the room lurches uncomfortably and terrifyingly; a swaying, multicoloured, blurry mass of confusion. He’s frozen now, halfway between standing and bending down, so close to hydration but still much too far away. Joe Tate makes one final desperate attempt to stay upright, grasping at the handles on the side of the machine in front of him…

Everything ceases. He crumples onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third and final part will be up on the 15th - and as always, all comments are appreciated, even the ones lecturing me about what cliffhangers do to the soul.
> 
> Stay safe and positive <3


	3. III

When he wakes up, Joe doesn’t recognise his surroundings. Well, that’s a lie; he knows exactly where he is, he just isn’t expecting to be there. 

Joe thinks hospital rooms look different when you’re a patient rather than a visitor.

The pale walls are brighter and harsher against his eyes than he remembers from his visits to see Sarah, the smell of disinfectant sharper in his nose. Even the air feels different, more dense, stifling. It’s the noises he notices most, really, because the soft bleeps he’s used to from the machines are sounding a lot more like screeches in his head, overpowering everything but a nurse calling his name. 

Wait. A nurse is calling his name.

“Mr Tate? I’ve come to check up on you and ask a few questions. Is that okay?” the nurse, a plump, dark woman around the same age as Joe, smiles down at him sympathetically.

Joe tries to sit up, but finds his efforts hindered by what seems like a thousand different tubes feeding into his body. He feels himself retch as he realises what the implications of that are. Right now, right at this second, there’s stuff going into his stomach that’s threatening to undo weeks of hard work.

His unsettled eyes meet the nurse’s reassuring ones. “I don’t suppose you can take those out, can you?” he manages, weakly.

“That’s one of the things I came to talk to you about, actually. Due to the condition you’re currently in, we’re required to keep you under our care regardless of whether you give consent or not. Do you understand this?”

No. Let me go. “Yes.”

“You were brought in yesterday when your friend discovered you unconscious in your house. Do you remember falling unconscious?” Her tone is kind enough, but her words feel like daggers.

“Yes,” he musters, continuing after a moment when he sees the nurse looking at him expectantly, “I’d been running on my treadmill for a while and I got tired.”

“You were more than tired, Mr Tate. Your heart rate was below what is known to be fatal and your body was empty of practically all nutrients. Given your previous medical history, are we correct in our assumption that this state of malnutrition is self-inflicted?”

His previous medical history. This time, all Joe can do is nod, averting his gaze to the floor in shame. He’s almost glad at how numb he feels, because he doesn’t think he could deal with the torrent of emotions brewing in his brain if any one of them were a fraction stronger.

“That’s all for now. I’ll be back later to explain what’s going to happen with regards to your treatment, but if you need anything just ask to see Catherine.” Catherine points to her name tag and smiles reassuringly. Joe decides he hates the fact that she’s so good at her job, because there she is being all understanding when she has no idea, but he smiles back anyway because he figures he’s done enough to embarrass himself recently without having to shout at a nurse. 

She leaves, but before the door even closes behind her there’s someone else throwing it back open and storming into the room. Joe doesn’t even have to look at the person’s face to see who it is - who else would it be but Debbie Dingle.

“What on earth do you think you’re playing at, Joe, passing out like that? Have they told you what’s happened? They said they can’t tell me anything because you’re over 18 and I was never your legal guardian anyway. I was… worried… sick.” Debbie slows down when she sees all the tubes and machines surrounding Joe, feels his tired stare bore into her soul.

“I think you’d better sit down.” He swallows.

“No. I’m not sitting down before you tell me what’s happening. I’m not even meant to be in here, you know, I just couldn’t wait any more. I’ve not even told Sarah about this yet.” she motors. Joe’s known her for long enough now to understand that rambling’s what she does to make sense of everything when she’s scared, so he likes to let her get on with it. This time, though, he’s pretty sure he’s just letting her delay his inevitable confession for as long as possible.

“Okay, fine. But you have to try to understand, okay, and not just jump straight to conclusions.”

“Joe, you’re scaring me.”

“I passed out because of malnutrition. My heart was barely beating when you – I assume it was you – found me passed out, you know that? I’ve been dying for a while now.”

“I…I don’t understand.”

“I have anorexia.” The bluntness of the statement surprises even Joe himself – it’s something he’s never liked to say out loud or even think about - and he doesn’t think Debbie’s ever been so startled. They’re both too taken aback to even speak, and the three words hang in the air like a foul odour for a long, long time before either of them can manage anything. After a while, Debbie pulls a chair up next to Joe’s bed and reaches for his hand. He lets her grip it tightly, noticing how she hesitates when she realises how skeletal his hand has actually become.

“Are you going to be okay? What have they said?” she articulates.

“I’ll be fine, physically. They haven’t said very much but they have to keep me here while I’m still on death’s door. Legal obligations and all.” He chuckles dryly, but Debbie isn’t laughing.

“So you did this… to yourself? Why would you want to do this, Joe? Do you think you’re fat? Is that it? Because you’re perfect. You were perfect-“ she opens her mouth to say something else, but Joe decides it’s best to stop her this time, if not for her sake then for his own.

“It’s never about being fat.” Saying all this out loud for the first time in years is a bittersweet concept for him; on the one hand, there’s the disordered part of his mind telling him to stop being so vulnerable and stop recognising his illness for what it is, and on the other hand there’s plain old Joe rejoicing at the chance to have somebody understand his suffering. Lying here, he’s 15 again, and he’s vulnerable and troubled and so, so scared. He tries his best to block out everything he’s feeling, but it’s getting more difficult by the second as the numb sleepiness he felt before is beginning to subside.

“Well what’s it about then? You didn’t just do it for a laugh, did you?”

“Debbie.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But I still don’t get why you’d do this. You seem fine, apart from how ill you look. When did you get this thin?”

Joe grimaces at her words. He knows she’s not trying to be harsh, he really does, but it’s making it a whole lot easier for his messed-up brain to convince him that he doesn’t deserve help. “When I was 15, I had nobody. I decided not to bother going to the canteen to get lunch because there was nobody there for me to eat it with. When I started to lose weight, seeing the numbers go down on the scale felt like an unexpected victory.” He pauses to properly gauge Debbie’s reaction. She looks like she’s upset now, a sentence away from tears, squeezing his hand so tight it hurts, and Joe looks away because he really can’t deal with that right now. “After that, eating anything just felt wrong. There’s this voice in your head all the time, convincing you that…starving yourself is the right thing to do. But it starts off by saying ‘you could do with losing a bit of weight’ and after a while it’s just ‘you’re fat and disgusting, and if this kills you the world will be a better place’.”

That sets Debbie off. “Why wouldn’t you just ask for help if you were feeling like that, Joe?” she cries, and he still can’t look at her because he can’t let himself feel right now.

“Because I liked it. It was everything I could ever want. That sense of control, even when I knew it was really controlling me, was something I needed. I told myself it was success and perfection and control and punishment all in one thing and all I had to do was let it win.”

Another uncomfortable pause. He’s said too much-

“This hasn’t been going on since you were 15, has it?”

“I got help after when Graham did. He took me to all my meetings at this clinic, and I’d go with him to his when he needed me to.” Joe almost laughs again at history’s cruel repetitiveness.

“So this is recent.” she reasons.

“Yeah. Last month set it off, I think. It’s worse the second time round, because there’s all the positive things you’ve learned to internalise over the years mixed with all the negatives that know how to manipulate you so well because they’re your own thoughts.”

She breathes in deeply. “I had no idea.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

What seems like the thousandth pause in this one conversation descends on the room, and Joe’s crying too now because this is just too much. 

“How are you feeling now?” Debbie manages through her tears.

“Every last b-bit of energy is going towards blocking out my thoughts and eve-ry time I think about that fucking feeding tube I feel like I’m going to th-row up.” he puts, bluntly.

Debbie puts her free hand to her head in frustration. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Stay with me.” It’s a simple statement but a powerful one, and it’s going against everything he knows. He wants to shout at her to leave and never come back again, but he knows he just needs someone to be there.

Debbie agrees. She stays with him for the weeks after that while he recovers, through all the breakdowns and the attempts to purge everything he’s taken in. She’s there when he takes his first bite in weeks, she’s there when he has to try to explain to Sarah what’s the matter with him and she’s even there when he’s decided he’s ready to make amends with Graham. It’s a confusing relationship at best, but it’s one that Joe is eternally grateful for.

When he’s discharged from the hospital a month later Joe is far from healed, but he’s healing with the help of people who care. 

Joe Tate relearns that true worth can’t be measured by any number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I really hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. When I first published this I never imagined that it would get as many reads as it has, and the comments have all been so lovely I very nearly cried! This was my first ever multi-chapter fic and I'll definitely be writing more in the future. Plus there's still Graham and Joe's relationship to explore as well as the rest of the Tate family, so stay tuned because I'm debating whether or not to write a follow up fic in the near future ;)
> 
> Thank you, and always remember: stay safe, stay positive, and make every day one to remember <3
> 
> \- Ela (WhatSheDidNext)


End file.
